University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

THE  PETER  AND  ROSELL  HARVEY 

MEMORIAL  FUND 


SOUVENIR  ALBUM  OF  NOTED 
INDIAN  PHOTOGRAPHS 


By  MAJOR  LEE  MOORHOUSE 


PENDLETON,  OREGON. 


COPYRIGHTED  1 906 
By  Lee  Moorhouse 

Everything  in  this  book  is  protected  by  Copyright. 


Second   Edition. 
PRICE,  (by  mail  postpaid)  $1.00 


Eait  Oregonian   Print 


Pendleton,   Oregon 


Jin  Indian  tepee  in  the  wilderness, 
The  lonely  outpost  of  a  dying  race 
That  once  Were  strong  and  conquerors  of  men; 
^Perhaps  some  sachem,  faring  westward  ever, 
His  tribe  dispersed,  his  gaudy  braves  all  gone, 
Hath  reared  his  nomad  home  in  this  far  place. 
Tif  mote  from  striving  men  and  (he  fierce  world 
Here  museth  he  upon  the  days  that  were 
Before  an  alien  people  drove  him  forth 
And  all  his  tribe  to  wander  and  to  die; 
Here  museth  he  upon  the  days  that  Were 
'Uhat  mooeth  ever  toward  the  western  sea, 
Like  his  own  drioen  people — there  to  cease. 
Perhaps  some  Indian  maiden  in  this  place 
Dreameth  the  blushing  dreams  of  maidenhood, 
Hopeful  as  youth,  not  thinking  of  the  past. 

— Eustace-  Cullinan. 


r- 

o 

a 


O 


" 


The  Indian's  Reverie. 


Darkly  and  moodily  by  the  wild  Water, 

Tossing  their  mists  at  his  feet  on  the  shore, 
'Dreams  the  lone  son  of  the  war  chieftain's  daughter,— 

Dreams  of  the  glory  of  tribesmen  of  yore! 
'Vanished  the  lodges  that  decked  the  green  mountain. 

Silent  the  song  from  the  tepee  and  plain, 
Cometh  no  warriors  to  drink  from  the  fountain, 

Cometh  no  shout  of  the  huntsman  again! 


Thirsting  for  vengeance  the  fierce  hosts  assemble, 

Wildly  they're  chanting  the  battle-mad  hymn; 
Ah,  but  the  war  trails  beneath  the  hoofs  tremble, 

They  gather  like  clouds  on  the  horizon's  rim! 
Far  in  the  distance  the  tepees  are  guarded; 

War  steeds  are  tethered  and  signal  fires  bright- 
Down  the  dim  trails  like  an  eagle  from  heaven, 

Sweeps  the  wild  horde  on  the  foeman  at  night. 


Yet,  as  he  lingers  in  silence  and  listens, 

There,  where  the  Cascades  make  merry  all  day; 
Watches  and  Wails  where  the  tinted  mist  glistens, 

He  hears  the  wild  shouts  of  the  children  at  play; 
Tfjsing  before  him  the  dim,  clustered  legions, 

Spreading  in  glory  upon  the  broad  place 
Teeming  with  Warriors  the  desolate  regions, — 

Ah,  in  his  dream  he  bsholds  the  old  race! 


Then  the  closed  eyes  of  the  dreanier  are  opened — 

Only  the  music  and  mist  of  the  stream, 
Only  the  mountains  forbidding  and  lonely, 

Only  the  flush  of  a  heartbreaking  dream. 
Singing  so  blithely  the  TumWater  whispers — 

"/  am  the  voice  and  the  spirit  of  yore! 
Here  let  the  redman  in  reverie  linger, 

Dream  and  drink  deeply  my  song,  evermore!" 

— Bert  Huffman. 


Tumwater  Falls  on  the  Columbia  River. 


Wal-lu-lah. 


Ere  the  pale  face  saw  the  Westland  in  its  grandeur  by 

the  sea, 
Lived  a  dusky  Indian  princess,  fair  as  fairest  flower  to 

see! 
By  Columbia's  thundering  Cascades,  o'er  the  beauteous 

upland  plain, 
Wandered  lone  the  fair    Wal-lu-lah,    chanting  e'er 

some  wild  refrain. 


suitors  thronged  about  her,  pleaded  for 

lu-lah's  hand, 
But  she  wept  her  absent  lover  —  pointed  to  yon  western 

strand! 
By  Columbia's  murmuring  Cascades,  long  and  lone  her 

tireless  quest. 
Now  she  sleeps,   but   still  awaits  him  with  her  face  to 

ward  the  West! 
Drifting  sands  above  her  mingle,    happy  homes  bedeck 

her  plain, 
But  her  spirit  sings  and  murmurs  in   Columbia's  wild 

refrain. 

—  Bert  Huffman. 


U-ma-pine. 


Wal-lu-lah. 


Chief  Joseph  the  Younger. 


Chief  Joseph  the  Younger,  was  one  of  the 
greatest  Indians  of  the  Pacific  Coast,  and  well 
merits  a  place  in  history.  He  was  hereditary 
chief  of  the  Nez  Perce  Indians  and  was  born  at 
the  mouth  of  the  Imnaha  river  in  what  is  now 
Wallowa  county,  Oregon,  in  June,  1837,  and 
died  at  his  lonely  place  of  exile  on  the  Colville 
reservation,  in  Northern  Washington,  on  Sept 
ember  21,  1904,  at  the  age  of  67. 

The  most  remarkable  period  in  the  history  of 
Joseph's  life  was  his  conduct  of  the  Nez  Perce 
war  in  1877.  With  a  barrd  of  warriors,  women 
and  children,  he  held  at  bay  and  successfully 
evaded  for  three  months  the  United  State  troops 
sent  against  him  under  General  Howard,  and 
was  only  captured  at  last  at  Bear  Paw  Mountain, 
in  Northern  Montana,  by  the  intervention  of 
Colonel  Nelson  A.  Miles,  with  a  strong  force  of 
fresh  troops  from  Fort  Keogh,  Montana. 

The  retreat  and  running  fight  of  Joseph's  band 
of  warriors  in  this  war  was  the  most  remarkable 
in  the  history  of  Indian  warfare.  He  was  held  a 
prisoner  of  war  from  the  time  of  his  capture  in 


1877,  until  his  death,  having  spent  nine  years 
in  the  Indian  Territory.  He  was  never  allowed 
to  look  upon  the  Wallowa  valley  for  which  he 
fought  the  Nez  Perce  war.  Joseph,  and  his 
brother,  Olicut,  inherited  the  name  and  power  of 
his  father.  Old  Joseph  called  the  two  sons  to  his 
death  bed  and  requested  them  to  hold  forever  the 
beautiful  Wallowa  valley,  in  Oregon,  and  it  was 
in  defense  of  this  valley  and  protest  against  its 
settlement  by  the  whites  that  the  famous  Nez 
Perce  war  was  fought. 

Joseph  was  a  wise  and  just  Indian  and  was  as 
resourceful  in  council  as  in  war,  and  the  one 
burning  desire  of  his  life  was  to  look  upon  the 
valley  of  his  youth  which  his  father  had  left  him 
as  a  heritage  and  for1  the  defense  of  which  Joseph 
the  Younger  became  a  prisoner  and  an  exile  from 
his  people.  He  died  on  the  Colville  reservation, 
surrounded'by  a  band  of  his  intimate  friends  who 
never  deserted  him.  A  splendid  monument 
erected  by  the  state  of  Washington  now  marks 
his  grave.. 


Paul  Show-a-way,  Hereditary  Chief  of  Cayuses. 


Chief  Joseph  of  Nez  Perces. 


The  Lone  Tepee. 


How  cold  and  bleak  the  barren  wastes  appear; 
No  singing  birds,  no  beauteous  flowers  to  greet 
The  dying  year  with  clouds  of  fragrance  sweet. 
No  fresh  surprise,  no  fondling,  keen  delight — 
Only  the  weight  of  fast  descending  night, 
Only  an  awe,  almost  afon  to  fear. 
jJfar  the  sun  and  far  the  gloomy  sky, 
jQnd  silence,  save  for  whispers,  all  around; 
No  graceful  trees,  no  broods  go  laughing  by, 
No  signs  of  life;  no  merry,  joyful  sound. 
Cold  and  deserted,  'gainst  the  sombre  sky. 
The  lonely  tepee  of  a  brace  appears; 
We  pass  in  silence  with  a  whispered  sigh, 
j4nd  offer  all  T»e  have — our  tears! 


Statue  in  Bronze. 


The  Lone  Tepee. 


Lament  of  the  Umatilla. 


Spirit  of  the  Yesterday    • 

Hovers  near  and  croons; 
Brings  my  heart  the  hunting  grounds 

Of  the  long  lost  Junes! 
Sings  of  years  forgotten, 

Chants  of  races  dead — 
Weep  my  wond'ring  baby, 

For  the  good  moons  fled! 

II. 

By  the  silvery  river 

A II  your  race  has  died 
Sleep  and  dream  niy  baby, 

By  its  lisping  tide! 
Comes  no  more  the  huntsman 

From  the  glorious  chase — 
O'er  yon  templed  mountains 

Swarms  the  paler  face! 


III. 

Harty    I  hear  a  whisper 
Calling  from  the  past! 

Hear  the  Warrior's  frenzied  cry 
On  the  tempest  cast! 

Hush,  my  heart,  and  listen! 
Calling,  calling  still! 

Ah,  'tis  but  the  moaning  wind 

O'er  the  silent  hill! 

IV. 

Hark,!  the  hurried  hoofbeats 
Of  the  Warrior  band! 

Ah,  my  heart  betrays  me 
In  this  empty  land! 

Sleep  and  dream,  my  baby, 
By  the  tepee  fire! 

Nothing  for  thy  kindling  hope- 
Nothing  to  desire! 


V. 


Broken,  let  thy  young  heart  ache! 

Crushed,  thy  spirit  brood! 
What  to  thee  the  while  man's  ways? 

Worse  than  solitude! 
By  a  dying  watch  fire, 

Crooning  in  the  night — 
Let   he  Vanquished  tribesmen 

'Pass  from  human  sight. 

— Bert  Huffman. 


I, 

o' 

a 


I 


SACAJAWEA. 


The  following  poem,  written  by  Bert  Huff 
man,  editor  of  the  EastOregonian,  of  Pendle- 
ton,  Oregon,  and  dedicated  to  the  Shoshone 
Indian  girl  who  guided  Lewis  and  Clark  across 
the  Rocky  Mountains,  was  first  published  in 
the  East  Oregonian  in  May,  1904,  and  since 
that  time  has  been  published  in  all  the  leading 


Behind  them  toward  the  rising  sun 

The  traversed  wildernesses  lay — 
j4boiit  them  gathered — one  by  one 

The  baffling  mysteries  of  their  way! 
To  Westward,  yonder,  peak  °n  peak 

The  glistening  ranges  rose  and  fell, — 
Ah,  but  among  that  hundred  paths 

Which  led  aright?     Could  any  tell? 


papers  in  the  East  and  Northwest,  besides 
having  been  recited  over  200  times  in  women's 
club  meetings  and  Sacajawea  Monument  As 
sociation  entertainments.  It  was  recited  by 
Mrs.  George  H.  Pettinger  at  the  unveiling  of 
the  Sacajawea  monument  at  the  Lewis  and 
Clark  Fair,  Portland,  Ore.,  on  July  6,  1905: 


Lewis  and  Immortal  Clark! 

Bold  spirits  of  that  best  Crusade, 
You  gave  the  matting  world  the  spark 

That  thronged  the  empire-paths  you  made! 
{But  standing  on  that  snowy  height, 

Where  Westward  yon  mild  rivers  Tohirl, 
The  guide  who  led  your  hosts  aright 

Was  that  barefoot  Shoshone  girl! 


You  halted  by  those  dim  arcades — 

You  faltered  by  those  baffling  peaks — 
You  doubled  in  those  pathless  glades, 

But  ever,  ever  true  she  speaks/ 
Where  lay  the  perilous  snows  of  Spring, 

Where  streams  their  westward  course  forsook, 
The  wildest  mountain  haunts  to  her 

Were  as  an  open  picture-book/ 

Where'er  you  turned  in  wonderment 

In  that  wild  empire,  unsurveyed, 
Unerring  still,  she  pointed  West — 

Unfailing,  all  your  pathways  laid! 
She  nodded  towards  the  setting  sun — 

She  raised  a  finger  toward  the  sea  — 
The  closed  gales  opened,  one  by  one, 

And  showed  the  path  of  Destiny! 


The  wreath  of  Triumph  give  to  her; 

She  led  the  conquering  Captains  West; 
She  charted  first  the  trails  that  led 

The  hosts  across  yon  mountain  crest! 
Barefoot,  she  toiled  the  forest  paths, 

Where  now  the  course  of  Empire  speeds. 
Can  you  forget,  loved  Western  land, 

The  glory  of  her  deathless  deeds? 

In  yonder  ci!y,  glory  crowned, 

Where  art  will  vie  with  art  to  £eep 
The  memories  of  those  heroes  green — 

The  flush  of  condous  pride  should  leap 
To  see  her  fair  memorial  stand 

jlmong  the  honored  names  that  be — 
Her  face  toward  the  sunset  sfill, — 

Her  finger  lifted  tywards  the  sea! 


Beside  you  on  Fame's  pedestal, 

Be  hers  the  glorious  fate  to  stand — 
Bronzed,  barefoot,  yet  a  patron  saint, 

The  keys  of  empire  in  her  hand! 
The  mountain  gates  thai  closed  to  you 

Swung  open,  as  she  lead  the  way, — 
So  let  her  lead  that  hero  host 

When  comes  their  glad  memorial  day! 


Pe-tow-ya,  a  Cayuse  Patriarch. 


IE-TOW-YA,  a  Cayuse  squaw  of  the 
Umatilla  reservation,  lived  to  be  114 
years  of  age,  having  died  on  the  reservation 
near  Pendleton  in  1902. 

She  remembered  having  seen  the  Lewis 
and  Clark  expedition  as  it  passed  eastward 
up  the  Columbia  river  after  having  spent  the 
winter  near  Astoria.  She  once  related  to 
Major  Lee  Moorhouse  her  remembrance  of 
York,  the  colored  servant  who  accompanied 
the  Lewis  and  Clark  expedition.  She  said 
that  although  she  was  but  a  girl  of  12  or  13 
at  the  time,  she  ventured  to  get  close  enough 


to  the  big  black  man  to  wet  her  finger  tips 
and  rub  his  skin  to  ascertain  if  it  was  real 
skin  or  just  a  paint  on  the  negro.  Her 
wonder  was  excited  when  she  found  that  it 
would  not  "rub  off." 

She  was  reared  in  the  vicinity  of  Pendle 
ton,  Umatilla  and  Wallula  and  was  finally 
allotted  on  the  Umatilla  reservation,  where 
she  passed  the  last  years  of  her  life.  She 
was  the  last  of  the  old  Cayuse  tribe  to 
speak  the  pure  Cayuse  language.  This 
limpid  language  was  formerly  one  of  the 
most  widely  spoken  of  any  of  the  Indian 
languages  in  the  Northwest. 


t 


Q 


Dr.  Whirlwind. 


Dr.  Whirlwind,  or  Shap-lish,  one  of  the  most 
prominent  and  historic  Indian  characters  in  the 
West,  is  now  81  years  old  and  is  yet  as  straight 
as  an  arrow  and  shows  his  great  age  but  slightly. 

He  was  born  on  the  banks  of  the  beautifu 
Umatilla  in  1824,  and  when  the  Whitman  mass 
acre  occurred  in  1847,  was  a  young  man  of  23. 
He  knew  Dr.  Whitman  and  when  the  news  of 
the  massacre  reached  the  Umatilla  river  where 
Whirlwind  lived,  he  was  one  of  a  party  of  friend 
ly  Indians  to  go  to  the  mission  and  verify  the 
truth  of  the  report  of  the  massacre.  He  remem 
bers  the  awful  scene  which  met  the  gaze  of  the 
friendly  Indians  as  they  neared  the  burned 
mission.  The  murdered  victims  were  scattered 
about  the  premises  and  the  once  prosperous 
and  happy  mission  was  in  ruins. 

Whirlwind  says  that  is  was  not  the  Indians 
who  incited  the  murder  of  the  Whitman  party, 
and  grows  indignant  when  he  speaks  of  that 
tragedy. 

During  the  "Sheepeater"  campaign  in  the  Sal 
mon  river  mountains  in  Idaho,  in  1879,  Whirl 


wind  was  chief  of  scouts  for  the  United  States 
government  and  was  instrumental  in  capturing 
that  murderous  band  of  renegade  Indians. 

With  20  faithful  Indian  scouts,  in  which  party 
were  a  number  of  still  living  Umatilla  Indians, 
including  Peo,  Captain  Sum-kin,  Talou-kiakts, 
Seu-sips,  To-ki-e-kan  and  Homily,  accompanied 
by  Lieutenant  Farrow  and  five  white  soldiers, 
Whirlwind  went  into  the  almost  inaccessible 
mountains  on  Salmon  river  in  Northern  Idaho, 
and  after  a  hard  chase  in  which  brilliant  Indian 
strategy  was  used  on  his  part,  succeeded  in  cap 
turing  the  entire  force  of  the  murderous 
"Sheepeaters." 

The  "Sheepeaters"  were  renegade  Snake 
river  and  Piute  Indians  which  infested  the  rug 
ged  mountains  and  raided  the  scattering  settle 
ments,  murdering  whites  and  stealing  stock  on 
every  hand.  White  soldiers  had  tried  in  vain  to 
capture  or  dislodge  the  murderous  band,  but  it 
was  not  until  Whirlwind  and  his  Umatilla  scouts 
invaded  the  fastnesses  that  they  were  captured. 


ex. 


B 

i 


The  Song  of  the  Bow. 


To  the  Master  of  all  the  woods  I  came 

Where  a  forest  monarch  stood. 
"O,  give  me,"  I  cried,  "for  a  warrior's  fame 

Jl  bow  of  the  sacred  wood; 
Of  the  sacred  cedar  that  lifts  and  sings 

On  the  high  reared  cliff  where  the  eagle  Kings. 

Then  the  God  of  the  Forest  answered  me: 

"O,  son  of  a  prophet's  line, 
Not  only  a  bow  from  the  sacred  tree, 

But  the  song  of  it,  too,  be  thine, 
The  Voice  of  the  cedar  thy  bow  shall  own 

To  sing  all  songs  that  the  air  hath  known. " 


I  climbed  to  the  cliff  where  the  eagles  nest 

jJnd  clave  at  the  cedar's  hide: 
I  ripped  me  a  rib  from  its  bleeding  breast 

jJnd  bore  it  away  in  pride: 
I  hewed  it  and  shaped  it  from  noon  till  noon, 

Jlnd  it  shone  in  my  eye  like  a  new-born  moon. 

And  now  if  I  rest  in  the  purple  light 

When  the  Autumn  day  is  done, 
Or  follow  the  panther  up  niountain  height, 

Or  steal  where  the  mild  deer  run, 
Or  fly  with  my  steed,  or  plunge  in  the  sea, 

My  bow  hath  ever  a  voice  to  me. 


My  bow  sings  ever  in  sun  and  rain, 

As  soft  as  the  river's  flow, 
To  tell  of  the  spirits  of  mood  and  plain 

only  the  soul  may  know, 
my  hands  on  the  stars  of  the  sky  take  hold 
And  all  of  the  world  to  my  heart  I  fold. 

-  Charles  Eugene  Banks. 


n 

% 

F 


I 


Way  of  the  Umatilla. 


The  Umatilla  laughing  and  singing, 

Flows  to  the  Columbia  below 
Among  the  tall  pines  like  a  silver  thread 

As  a  'wayward  child  to  it's  mother  is  led 
'Uo  the  Bridge  of  the  Gods  it  would  go. 

Mayhap  the  river  is  seeding 

As  we  of  earth  seek  higher  spheres — 

Like  the  children  of  earl h  it  is  jostled  and  tossed 
On  the  pathways  of  fate  till  its  yearning  is  lost 

In  the  far  afaay  ocean  of  years. 

— Lula  R.  Lorenz. 


r 

n 
§ 


°7 

5" 


The  Medicine   Man. 


I 


Alone  he  stands  in  primal  solitude, 

In  grace  a  child,  in  majesty  a  king, 
jlfar  his  people  wait  nor  dare  intrude 

Where  he  invites  the  spirits  counseling. 
Long  days  of  fasting  in  the  solemn  wood; 

Long  nights  of  gazing  on  the  tranquil  stars, 
Have  purified  the  passions  in  his  blood 

jJnd  made  a  Moses  of  a  son  of  Mars. 
Jin  instrument  of  twice  ten  thousand  strings 

To  Nature's  ruthm  delicately  attuned, 
He  trills  responsive  to  the  noiseless  Mings 

Of  messengers  with  whom  he  has  communed. 
Then  suddenly  a  subtle  essence  flows 

Through  all  his  being,  and  he  all  things  knows. 
— Charles  Eugene  Banl^s.- 


f 


Camp  of  Indians  on 


Umatilla  Reservation. 


Umatilla  County Old  and  New. 


It  is  late  October.  The  noonday  sun  still  re 
tains  suggestions  of  its  mid -summer  ardor  but 
the  mornings  and  evenings  have  a  touch  of  the 
north — a  hint  of  frost  is  in  the  air.  Perfect  days 
are  followed  by  no  less  perfect  nights. 

Before  the  sun  has  disappeared  behind  the 
bare  brown  hills  the  full  round  moon  looks  palely 
from  the  eastern  sky.  The  air  is  hazy  and  in 
the  west  the  clouds  are  banked  in  heavy  masses 
of  beauty.  With  their  everchanging  tints  which 
constantly  merge  and  blend  into  new  color 
schemes  they  are  fair  as  an  artist's  dream.  Dusk 
does  not  follow  twilight;  instead  there  comes  a 
milder  day  of  moonlight  and  starlight.  Here  on 
these  rolling  hills  of  Eastern  Oregon  the  stars 
seem  nearer  and  brighter  than  elsewhere. 

Pause  for  a  moment  on  the  summit  of  this  little 


knoll  and  look  about  you.  In  all  directions  may 
be  seen  the  golden  stubble  or  the  rich  brown  of 
the  newly-plowed  earth.  No  need  to  turn  to  the 
musty  pages  of  your  histories  to  read  of  the 
"Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold"  that  famous  meet 
ing  place  of  the  French  and  English  kings,  for 
here  before  you,  mile  on  mile,  toward  the  far 
horizon  stretches  a  limitless  field  of  gold.  Not 
only  is  the  high  wheat  stubble  golden  in  its  au 
tumn  dress,  but  to  the  farmer  it  has  yielded  a 
rich  store  of  gold,  for  these  fertile  fields  are  well 
termed  "golden  acres." 

Turn  your  gaze  southward.  Scattered  across 
the  well -worked  field  are  sacks  of  grain.  They 
look  like  soldiers  lying  where  they  fell  as  they 
charged  across  the  plowed  ground.  A  seeder  is 
making  half-mile  trips  back  and  forth  across 


s 

o 

F 


the  field,  leaving  in  its  wake  long  rows  of 
mathematically  straight  lines  where  it  has  de 
posited  the  wheat.  Here  it  will  lie  awaiting  the 
vivifying,  life-giving  touch  of  Nature's  kindly 
forces  -  the  sun  and  the  rain,  the  frosts  and  the 
thaws. 

Here  and  there  is  a  field  of  Fall -sown  grain  al 
ready  showing  a  touch  of  vivid  emerald  against 
the  rich  brown  earth.  Ere  long  it  will  settle 
down  for  its  long  sleep  of  winter,  protected  by  its 
coat  of  eiderdown,  its  snowy  mantle.  Next 
May  will  see  the  tiny  shoots  knee  high,  full  of 
ripening  beauty  before  the  breezes  of  spring. 
But  now,  one  must  plant  in  faith  and  in  faith  see 
the  heavy-headed  grain  of  the  summer  to  come. 
Now  Nature  is  at  rest.  After  a  season  of  growth 
and  fruition,  after  a  bountiful  harvest  Nature  has 
paused  before  her  Winter  trance.  She  sits  in 
the  gloaming  with  folded  hands  after  the  heat 


and  stress  of  her  summer  day's  -work.  She  is 
basking  in  the  mellow  beauty  of  a  Calm  and  rest 
ful  Indian  Summer.  Thistledown  and  milk  weed 
seed  drift  by  toward  unknown  harbors.  From 
every  gatepost  stream  the  tiny  cables  of  the  busy 
spiders.  The  sheen  and  shimmer  of  silver  is 
seen  where  the  sunshine  glints  on  the  interlac 
ing  threads  that  run  from  weed  to  weed.  The 
thick-standing  stubble  is  a  gleam  with  the  filmy 
gossamer  lace-work.  Here  by  the  stream  one 
may  see  Nature's  annual  miracle.  Here  Nature, 
the  greatest  and  most  ancient  of  alchemists,  has 
transmuted  the  green  of  the  leaf  into  gold  or 
crimson.  Moses  saw  the  burning  bush  aflame 
yet  unconsumed.  Here  we  see  the  miracle  re 
produced  a  thousand  fold. 

Against  the  grey  trunks  and  yellow  leaves  of 
the  poplar,  the  sumacs  flame  a  vivid  crimson 
ablaze  with  color  yet  unconsumed.  The  haw 


' 
SP 


and  chokecherry  are  glad  in  Highland  plaid. 
Against  their  many-hued  coats  the  purple  clus 
ters  of  the  elderberry  stand  out  sharply.  Here 
on  the  grassy  banks  of  the  Umatilla  are  a  group 
of  smoke-stained  tepees,  from  which  the  smoke 
is  curling  up.  By  yonder  spring  Whirlwind  was 
was  born  four  score  years  ago,  long  before  the 
first  wagon  creaked  its  way  across  the  unknown 
desert  to  the  shores  of  the  western  sea.  The 
Indians  are  here  yet,  picturesque,  dignified,  but 
the  old  regime  has  passed  away. 

The  French  Canadian  trapper  and  his  batteau 
are  both  dust.  The  Hudson  Bay  trader  and  his 
buckskin-clad  men  have  taken  the  long  trail,  the 
one-way  trail  whose  travelers  return  no  more. 
The  war  path  and  the  buffalo  are  both  but 


memory.  About  the  lodge  fire  the  chief  dreams 
of  the  departed  glory  of  his  tribe.  His  lodge 
fire  died  down  to  embers.  Soon  he  too  will 
go  over  the  divide  to  the  happy  hunting 
grounds  to  the  land  of  the  departed.  Where  Peo 
ruled  the  council  of  his  braves  the  school  house 
of  the  paleface  stands.  Where  the  beaver  built 
his  dam  now  gleams  the  pumpkin- among  the 
shocked  corn.  Here  as  of  old  the  magpies  are 
chattering  in  the  patch  of  sarvis  berry  bushes. 
A  bob  white  skurries  to  shelter  beneath  the  brush. 
The  red  apples  are  gleaming  redly  from  their 
carpet  of  orchard  grass,  the  amber  liquid  flows 
from  the  cider  press,  the  big  bronze  turkeys  are 
strutting  in  the  barnyard.  Plenty  and  prosperi 
ty  reign  in  old  Umatilla. — Fred  Lockley. 


•27 

B 

5. 

§' 


Q 
3 


The  Mound  on  the  Hilltop. 


In  the  coulee  below  me  are  half  a  dozen  tepees. 
Here  and  there  may  be  seen  a  squaw  gathering 
firewood,  while  the  men,  vivid  patches  of  color 
in  their  gaudy  blankets,  sit  in  front  of  their  lod 
ges  smoking  in  dignified  silence.  Near  at  hand 
the  ponies  are  grazing.  On  the  crest  of  the  hill 
are  several  small  mounds. 

When  I  gain  the  crest  of  the  hill  I  find  the 
mounds  to  be  graves.  Here  is  a  little  mound. 
Upon  it  lies  a  few  simple  toys  and  a  pair  of  tiny 
moccasins.  Here  some  Indian  mother  has  left 
her  little  one,  part  of  her  very  life.  She  has 
gone  down  from  this  hilltop  leaving  her  baby 
here,  bearing  in  her  heart  a  wound  that  time 
may  heal,  but  the  scar  of  which  will  ever  remain. 
Her  little  one  that  had  scarcely  been  out  of  her 
sight — to  leave  it  on  this  lonely  hilltop  alone! 

As  she  lays  the  little  muccasin  and  clothing 
upon  the  grave,  as  she  puts  the  playthings  there, 
what  are  her  thoughts?  Her  little  one  will  be 


lonesome  in  that  far  land  in  that  great  beyond. 
The  spirit  of  these  things  that  he  knew  and  lov 
ed  here  will  go  with  him  to  serve  him  in  the  hap 
py  hunting  grounds.  Since  he  has  gone  she 
often  looks  at  the  western  skies  when  they  are 
tinged  with  the  glory  of  the  dying  day.  Far  in 
the  West,  beyond  the  sunset,  in  that  unknown 
land  of  the  spirts,  is  her  child. 

Her  arms  are  so  empty — she  stretches  them 
out  toward  the  mysterious  West.  Her  eyes  are 
dim,  her  cheeks  are  wet.  This  little  one  was  to 
have  been  a  great  warrior.  How  proud  she 
would  have  been  of  him!  The  red  in  the  West 
fades  to  neutral  tints  of  grey.  The  wind  arises 
as  the  twilight  falls.  Far  off  she  hears  the  long 
drawn  mournful  wail  of  a  dog.  She  draws  her 
blanket  close  about  her  and  with  bowed  head  she 
leaves  the  hilltop.  Slowly  darkness  gathers  and 
blots  out  the  rounded  mounds. 

— Fred  Lockley. 


The  Old  Emigrant  Road. 


j*Jged  and  desolate,  grizzled  and  still, 

It  creeps  in  slow  curves  round  the  base  of  the  hill; 

Of  its  once  busy  traffic  is  left  little  trace, 

Not  a  hoof-print  or  wheel-track  is  fresh  on  its  face. 

ff^anlf  brambles  encroach  on  its  poor,  ragged  edge, 
And  bowlders  crash  down  from  the  mountainside  ledge; 
The  elements  Join  to  efface  the  dim  trail, 
T?he  torrents  of  springtime,  the  winter's  fierce  gale; 

Yet,  with  pioneer  sturdiness,  patient  and  still, 
It  lingers  and  clings  round  the  base  of  the  hill: 
Outlasting  its  usefulness,  furrowed  and  gray, 
Gaunt  phantom  of  Yesterday:  haunting  'Uo-day. 

— Carrie  Blal^e  Morgan. 


IVo-ho-pum  and  Papoose. 


The  Chinook  Wind. 


White  and  cold  was  the  robe  that  lay 
Over  the  Oregon  hills  away; 
Coldly  the  mountain's  lifted  face 
Q learned  in  its  wintry  crown's  embrace. 
'Uhe  white-robed  hill  as  a  sentinel  stands 
Lifee  a  waiting  nun  with  folded  hands: 
Hushed  is  the  pulse  of  the  singing  stream, 
Coldly  brilliant  the  forests  gleam; 
Wierd  and  ghastly,  with  frozen  lips 
The  earth  front  its  flagon  of  Silence  sips; 
The  heart  of  the  hills  beats  low,  beats  low, 
For  cruel  and  heavy  its  burden  of  snow ; 
The  Voice  of  the  hills  is  faint,  is  faint, 
But  never  is  lifted  in  sad  complaint, 
For  a  patient  jade  is  (he  humble  earth 
Meekly  waiting  the  Springtime's  birth! 
Jlnd  then  on  the  western  sea  afar, 
The  Gate  of  the  Winds  is  left  ajar, 


And  softly  stealing  on  timid  wing, 
A  soft  wind  comes  from  the  Garden  of  Spring! 
And  oh,  the  kiss  of  her  passionate  mouth, 
Warm  with  the  breath  of  the  languorous  South! 
And  oh,  the  touch  of  her  thrilling  hand, 
Soft  as  a  lover's  upon  the  land! 
She  steals  to  the  wintry  tyrant's  lair 
And  tangles  her  fingers  into  his  hair; 
Her  hot  breath  k'sses  his  pallid  cheek — 
His  lips  of  Silence  in  wonder  speak! 
And  oh,  how  the  quivering  touch  of  her  hand 
Stirs  and  awakens  the  pulseless  land! 
Jlnd  oh,  how  the  heart  of  the  World  leaps  wild 
By  the  Warm  Chinook  of  the  West  beguiled! 
For  Life  and  Wonderment,  Joy  and  Spring 
jJre  the  gifts  that  her  pinions  ever  bring! 

—Serf  Huffman. 


a 

3' 

r 


P 


I- 
§ 


FAIR  OREGON 


/  know  not  whence  thy  mystery  came, 
Nor  whence  the  niagic  of  thy  name, 
Thou  haunted  land  of  whispering  pine, 
Whose  heart  beats  answer  unto  mine! 
So  near  to  thee  my  spirit  dwells, 
Its  every  mood  mine  own  foretells; 
Thy  Very  shadows  have  the  art 
Of  leaving  imprint  on  my  heart, 
jflnd  where  thy  myriad  minstrels  sing 
There  doth  my  answering  anthem  ring! 
Thou  sainted  land  where  sleep  the  brave 
Crowned  and  embraced  by  cloud  and  wave, 
For  thee  I  would  all  perils  meet, 
For  thee  the  wildest  deserts  greet, 
Or  breast  yon  sea  where  hearts  grow  faint, 
Or  barefoot,  thread  without  complaint, 
The  fartheresl  borders  'nealh  the  sun 
If  but  for  thee  it  needs  be  done! 

— Bert  Huffman. 


I 


Moorhouse  Collection  of  Indian  Curios. 


The  article  prized  most  highly  by  Major  Moor- 
house,  and  which  stands  at  the  head  of  the  list 
of  curios  in  his  large  collection  of  Indian  relics 
and  curios,  is  a  buckskin  war  dress,  elaborately 
beaded  and  decorated  with  a  large  number  of 
scalp  locks,  both  Indian  and  white.  One  lock 
attracts  unusual  attention  because  of  its  soft 
brown  color  and  is  undoubtedly  that  of  a  white 
woman. 

The  history  of  this  suit  is  that  in  a  battle  be 
tween  the  Crows  and  Sioux  Indians  near  Fort 
Union,  Mont.,  in  1865,  a  Sioux  chief  wearing 
this  suit  was  killed  by  the  Crows. 


Lieutenant  Charles  Buckner,  Co.  1,  30th  regi 
ment  Wisconsin  volunteers,  was  with  the  Crows 
in  the  battle,  and  because  of  his  bravery  the 
Crows  stripped  the  suit  from  the  dead  war  chief 
of  the  Sioux  and  after  arraying  Buckner  in  it, 
presented  it  to  him  in  token  of  the  esteem  of  the 
victorious  Crow  warriors. 

Major  Moorhouse  secured  the  suit  a  number  of 
years  ago  from  members  of  Lieutenant  Buckner's 
.  family  in  Pendleton. 

The  suit  consists  of  a  buckskin  garment  for  the 
body,  beaded  and  decorated  with  scalps,  an  otter 
skin  cap  or  head  dress  and  a  large  otter  skin  qui- 


o 

a- 


ver  for  arrows  and  with  the  suit  is  seen  the  dead 
chieftain's  strong  and  artistic  war  bow,  with 
which  he  was  able  to  pierce  the  body  of  a  man 
at  50  yards. 

It  is  highly  prized  by  Major  Moorhouse  because 
of  the  fact  that  it  has  seen  actual  service  and  was 
worn  by  a  murderous  Sioux,  who  was  perhaps  a 
terror  to  the  white  settlers  for  years  on  the 
Montana  frontier. 

Another  war  suit  now  owned  by  Major  Moor- 
house  is  one  worn  by  Young  William  Sitting  Bull, 
a  nephew  of  Sitting  Bull,  and  supposed  to  have 
been  in  the  Custer  massacre.  It  is  an  elaborate 
suit  of  buckskin  with  ornaments  and  grotesque  art 
and  is  a  valuable  possession. 

A  historic  war  bonnet  worn  by  the  Peo  family, 


including  Chief  We-nap-snoot,  father  of  the 
present  Chief  Peo  of  the  Umatillas,  and  also  by 
Peo  himself,  in  his  palmy  days  on  the  Umatilla 
reservation,  is  another  highly  prized  possession 
in  the  Moorhouse  collection.  The  family  of  chief 
tains  to  which  Peo  belongs,  was  historic  in  the 
inland  emprire  and  took  part  in  making  history 
and  for  this  reason  the  war  bonnet,  an  heirloom 
of  the  family,  has  great  historic  value. 

It  is  made  of  eagles  feathers  and  reaches  from 
the  head  to  the  ground,  when  the  wearer  is  sitting 
on  horseback,  making  it  an  imposing  and  artis 
tic  dress. 

A  number  of  other  beautiful  and  elaborate  war 
bonnets  are  found  in  the  collection,  many  of 
which  have  historic  interest  because  of  the  part 


9 

• 


they  have  played  in  the  wars  of  the  west. 

Another  article  of  peculiar  interest  is  the  dress 
of  an  old  Indian  woman,  a  most  elaborate  gar 
ment,  ornamented  with  beads  sold  by  the  Hudson 
Bay  trappers  on  the  Pacifice  coast  75  years  ago, 
and  not  seen  in  any  markets  on  the  Pacifiic  coast 
for  the  past  50  years 

It  required  months  to  make  this  buckskin  suit, 
because  of  its  tedious  bead  work  and  intricate 
parts,  and  since  it  represents  the  better  work 
manship  of  the  Indians  of  the  Umatilla  reserva 
tion  almost  a  century  ago,  it  has  intrinsic  value. 

A  wedding  robe  of  black  velvet,  trimmed  with 
pink  satin  and  beautifully  beaded  in  fantastic 
figures  and  designs,  and  decorated  with  hiqua 
shells,  is  another  valuable  relic  of  the  old-time 
Indian  of  the  inland  empire.  This  robe  is  made 


full  length,  and  while  the  colors  and  figures  are 
strikng,  it  would  scarcely  be  selected  by  a 
modern  bride  as  part  of  her  trousseau, 

Representing  in  the  highest  degree  the  handi 
work  of  the  Indian  women  of  the  northwest,  is  a 
large  collection  of  grass  caps  and  baskets  and  an 
especially  fine  collection  of  baby  boards,  or  Indian 
cradles,  made  of  buckskin  and  beautifully  beaded. 
The  skill  and  taste  shown  in  construction  of  the 
baby  boards  is  remarkable,  and  this  is  a  very 
valuable  part  ot  the  Moorhouse  collection. 

Peculiar  interest  attaches  to  a  cavalry  sword 
from  the  Custer  battle  fiield.  This  relic  was 
presented  to  Major  Moorhouse  by  Col.  E.  S. 
Godfrey,  formerly  of  the  famous  Seventh  cavalry, 
who  secured  it  from  a  Sioux  chieftain  soon  after 
the  Custer  battle. 


p 

5~ 

I7 
SJ 


I 

n 


Securing   Indian    Photographs. 


jEARS  of  close  friendship,  association 
and  confidence  are  necessary  to  secure 
photographs  from  the  Western  Indian  tribes. 
They  are  extremely  superstitious  and 
strangers  may  spend  weeks  before  getting 
a  picture  worth  developing. 

The  women  and  children  have  an  especi 
ally  strong  prejudice  against  the  camera  and 
it  is  not  uncommon  to  see  them  turn  their 
backs  upon  the  amateur  photographer  who 
goes  among  them  snapping  promiscuously. 
After  close  acquaintance  they  become  more 
reconciled  to  it,  but  even  then  are  usually 
more  or  less  afraid  of  its  mysteries. 

On  the  reservation  in  their  native  sur 
roundings  the  Indians  are  stolid,  taciturn, 
haughty  and  unyielding  toward  the  stranger 
who  goes  among  them  with  a  photographic 
outfit.  It  is  well  nigh  impossible  to  secure 
consent  to  photograph  an  Indian  unless  the 
artist  is  vouched  for  by  some  one  in  the 
confidence  of  the  Indian. 

And  after  you  once  have  gained  the  en 
tire  confidence  of  the  Indian  and  can  secure 
a  pose  at  your  request,  then  the  trouble 
has  only  actually  begun. 

Although  the  Indian  wears  but  few  gar 
ments,  yet  each  must  be  in  exact  place, 
without  a  flaw,  wrinkle,  or  crooked  line. 


The  hair  must  be  arranged  in  the  most  fas 
tidious  manner,  the  moccasins  must  be 
immaculate  and  the. clothes  "  just  so." 

It  requires  at  least  three  hours  for  an 
Indian  woman  to  prepare  properly  to  have 
her  picture  taken.  If  a  white  woman  used 
as  long  a  time  in  proportion  to  the  number 
of  garments  worn,  it  would  require  a  day  to 
properly  array  her  for  pose. 

The  Indians,  both  men  and  women,  are 
extremely  vain  and  give  much  attention  to 
their  personal  appearance  when  posing  for  a 
picture.  The  women  stain  their  faces  more 
or  less  and  put  on  all  the  gaudy  beads,  dec 
orations,  shining  spangles  and  bright  colors 
at  their  command. 

The  men  bring  out  their  newest  blankets 
and  comb  and  braid  their  hair  with  great 
care  before  submitting  to  a  pose.  After  an 
Indian  once  becomes  infatuated  with  the 
idea  of  having  his  photograph  taken,  it  be 
comes  a  mania.  He  then  visits  the  studio 
of  the  photographer  friend  frequently  and  is 
always  willing  and  even  anxious  to  pose. 

Such  cases,  however,  are  extremely  rare. 
Most  of  the  members  of  the  various  tribes 
shun  the  camera,  and  it  is  only  through  the 
most  tactful  management  that  a  natural, 
unembarrassed  pose  can  be  secured. 


Sins  of  the  Redman 


I    I 


C 


